


The Mysterious Affair at St Julien's

by arysteia



Category: Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie
Genre: F/M, Gen, Happily Ever After, Moving On, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: For thenewradical.  Happy very belated New Year.  Alternatively, Happy We're Almost Done With This Year.  It's a mere amuse bouche, but I hope you enjoy it.
Relationships: Helena Andrenyi/Rudolph Andrenyi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	The Mysterious Affair at St Julien's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thenewradical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenewradical/gifts).



> For thenewradical. Happy very belated New Year. Alternatively, Happy We're Almost Done With This Year. It's a mere amuse bouche, but I hope you enjoy it.

Mademoiselle Emilie Duchesne took a justified pride in the flowers, grown in her own garden, with which she decked the chapel at Saint Julien-le-Pauvre for special services, thinking it quite as beautiful, in its way, as its far grander cousin across the Seine. Even so, it was a shock to be told, with barely a week’s notice, that so august a personage as the Hungarian ambassador wished to baptise his firstborn child there, and she must make ready.

“But are you certain?” she asked her brother, the parish priest, in some distress. “Surely Monsieur le Comte will be expecting something very much finer?”

“All are equal in the eyes of God, Emilie,” Paul replied with the confidence of a man with a true vocation.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, but privately doubted it to be the case. She was not much interested in politics, but she listened to the wireless enough to know that God’s kingdom on Earth was in a sorry state, and likely to be sorrier still if Herr Hitler kept up his demands. Paul, by contrast, was a wonderful shepherd to his flock, and a man of great learning, but somewhat vague on the realities of human nature.

“In any case,” he said, smiling, “it will be the happy couple and their child only, no guests.”

“No guests?” she gasped, scandalised.

“None,” Paul agreed. “The Countess has no family, and the Count’s, of course, are stuck in Budapest.”

Indeed. In that case, Emilie thought, she must work twice as hard to make the occasion beautiful for the poor Countess, and she hurried out to the garden to take stock. She knew the spring rains had brought plenty of new growth to her lilies of the valley, and if she had to she would ask her friend Eloise for extra tulips, but she would very much prefer not to.

* * *

It was an even greater surprise, then, when Claudette announced Count Andrenyi himself on Tuesday afternoon.

“Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “We were not expecting you. My brother is making his rounds of the parish.”

“Of course, Madame,” the Count said, with a charming smile that made her forgive the politesse. He was a very handsome young man; perhaps thirty, very tall, blond hair, impeccably dressed. “It is in fact you I came to prevail upon. I hope you can forgive the rudeness of my arriving unheralded.”

Emilie smiled back. The arrangements at the church were well in hand, and she was confident the baptism would be a fine occasion, if minuscule, with only herself and Eloise to act as witnesses.

“Please sit,” she told him, and sat down herself. “And tell me what it is I can do to help you.”

“I am fully aware of the imposition I am making upon you,” the Count began. “But I did not wish to raise my wife’s hopes if I could not in fact bring the affair to pass.”

“The baptism?” Emilie asked, momentarily disconcerted. “It has all been arranged, despite the short notice.”

The Count had the decency to look embarrassed. “I apologise for that too,” he said, a becoming flush spreading across his high cheekbones. “But I must throw myself upon your mercy for one additional impertinence – the unhoped for arrival of some members of my wife’s family.”

_I thought she had none_ , Emilie thought but very carefully did not say, simply nodding instead, to encourage further confession.

“It is a very long time since we have all been together,” the Count went on, “and I was not certain, the times being what they are, that I could arrange for them all to meet us here, and while my wife’s health has improved immensely, I did not wish her to worry over a situation beyond our control.”

“Indeed?”

“But God has smiled upon us,” the Count said. “Everyone will be here by Friday evening. If you will agree to accommodate us for the ceremony, we will be thirteen. Fourteen, if you count my son, a number of better omen.”

“For the ceremony, of course,” Emilie said. “But what of the reception? I cannot possibly put together an appropriate buffet in three days.”

“There will be no reception,” said the Count. “We will dine at the Residence, and then, alas, everyone must recommence their various journeys. It is truly a marvel we were able to coordinate even for one day. My wife and son leave for Cherbourg, and thence to America, on Monday. I am much reassured that she will have her mother with her for the voyage. I must settle our affairs here, and then in Budapest, but hope to rejoin them before too long.”

“Ah, well,” Emilie said, noting the sudden existence of a previously unknown mother for her subsequent recounting to Eloise. “The imposition is not so very great then. The chapel will hold fourteen just as well as four.”

The Count smiled. “I thank you, Madame, from the bottom of my heart. My wife will be so happy, and to see her happy is truly my own greatest joy.”

“I think you love her very much,” Emilie said, importuning a little on the privileges of age. “You will stay for tea?”

The Count bowed from the waist. “Of course.”

Emilie rang for Claudette, and sat back on the chaise, ready to hear more.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, and Emilie set about decking the church. 

“Not like that!” she said to Eloise, who she had deigned, after all, to allow to help. “Like so.” She showed the perfect positioning for her friend’s pale pink tulips – admittedly a very fine crop – among the sprays of lily of the valley.

“So they met in America?” Eloise asked, obediently rearranging the tulips so that their heads peeked fetchingly over the cascades of small white lily blossoms.

“Yes,” Emilie said, though now that she thought about it, Count Andrenyi had been somewhat vague in the details. He had spoken a very great deal, over tea and Claudette’s finest madeleines, of his wife’s beauty and charm, and how he had been quite distracted from his duties when first introduced to her at a diplomatic function, but it was no longer clear in her mind whether it _had_ in fact been America, or indeed who had introduced them.

Before she could think about it further, the first guests arrived. If their punctuality had not marked them out as English, their matching tweed suits would have. The gentleman was older, with tanned skin, a square jaw, and steel grey hair. His wife was tall and pale, with a neat dark bob, and kind eyes. The curve of her belly was enough to gently hint at her condition, and her husband’s arm wrapped around her protectively as he ushered her to the front row. He nodded at Emilie and Eloise, and they took their seats.

The next to arrive were a pair of older women, and clearly firm friends, though they could not have been less alike in countenance. One was a stout, pleasant faced lady wearing a lilac silk dress and matching wrap. Her obvious happiness made her beautiful, and she was chatting to her companion nineteen to the dozen as they walked in, arm in arm. The other was a tiny thing, stooped and clearly arthritic, clad head to toe in black, a huge sable coat she did not remove, several ropes of pearls, and heavy rings on every finger of her clawed hands. She too was smiling, however, and her bright, jewel like eyes showed that she had been a beauty once, however long ago, and she did not forget.

“I’m Mrs Goldenberg,” the younger of the two said in a rich, soft voice, holding out her hand to Emilie. “Helena’s mother. I want to thank you for helping Rudolph put this together. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“It was a pleasure,” Emilie said. “Your son-in-law is very charming.”

“That he is,” Mrs Goldenberg agreed, laughing musically. “That he is.”

The other woman nodded, and they sat down with the English couple, who immediately became more animated. It was clear they had not met for some time.

“That’s Princess Dragomiroff,” Eloise whispered once they were safely out of earshot.

“Is it?” Emilie whispered back, glancing over at them again as she loosened and retied an already perfectly placed ribbon at the end of the pew.

“She escaped from Russia twenty years ago,” Eloise confirmed, clearly delighted to have one upped Emilie for once. “Her husband had most of his money invested in Germany, so she still lives very well.” She frowned suddenly. “I hope her advisors have suggested moving it again.”

“Hush!” Emilie said. “There are more guests.”

The rest of the party made a far more unusual sight, and were harder to reconcile as members of the family, even by marriage. Two Nordic women, Swedish or perhaps German, middle aged and somewhat faded, and considerably more modestly attired; and a group of men who arrived en masse, having presumably met up elsewhere and travelled to the church together, a motley crew of shape, size, and accent: a Frenchman, a flamboyant Italian, and a trio of Anglo-Saxons of uncertain origin and indeterminate age. Emilie could conceive of no possible relation between them, and was beginning to rather suspect that Count Andrenyi had been more than a little economical with the truth. They hastily sat down in the second row, where there was much joyful reunion, and not a few tears shed. Well, Emilie thought. The Count had not lied about that.

Paul entered then from the sacristy, and made his way to the font. He looked about in mild consternation at the absence of the guests of honour. Emilie glanced at her watch as surreptitiously as she could, but before she could communicate that five minutes was absolutely within the bounds of respectable delay, there was the unmistakeable sound of a motor car pulling up outside.

“It’s abominably rude,” a young woman’s voice said from the vestibule. “We’ve put them to enough inconvenience already.”

“I assure you, my darling,” the Count’s unmistakeable voice followed. “All will be well.”

They entered together, and the picture they made was enough for Emilie to want to clap her hands in delight. The Countess was a stunning young woman of twenty five years old, jet-black hair in the very latest style, pallor-pale skin, scarlet lips, and manicured hands with deep red nails. She was wearing a chic black toque perched at an outrageous angle, and a tight-fitting black coat over a matching black dress, a perfect contrast to the Count with his blond hair and pale grey silk suit. He was holding the infant in his arms, a squirming bundle of white silk and lace, and he smiled proudly as he caught Emilie’s eye.

“I apologise, Madame, Monsieur le prêtre,” the Countess began, then broke off as the waiting party of guests stood up in the pews and turned to greet her. “Oh, my God.” She turned back to her husband. “Rudolph, what have you done?”

The Count just smiled.

The Countess hurried across the nave to throw herself into the waiting arms of her tearful mother. All was chaos for a moment as the various guests waited their turn, and the Count left them to it, bringing the child over for Emilie and Eloise to admire. He was indeed a fine infant, rosy and fat cheeked, and they took a moment to coo over him.

“I thank you again,” the Count whispered, and for all that it was a very strange affair, he looked so happy that Emilie was entirely pleased to have been able to help him in his subterfuge. It was not often such romances played out at St Julien’s.

Paul, poor thing, looked altogether befuddled, but he waited patiently for the commotion to die down, and then conducted the service. Young Istvan Sebastien Andrenyi was baptised in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and if there were a few audible sobs when the forgiveness of sins was pronounced, it was not so very unusual. Emilie found herself shedding a few tears of her own as the Count, having safely passed off the baby to his beaming grandmother, took his wife in his arms and kissed her passionately.

It remained only to sign the register, and as the formalities were completed, Eloise suddenly interrupted. “I almost forgot!” she blurted. “Forgive me!”

Emilie turned to glare at her. What could she possibly have to contribute at this point?

“A gentleman left this for you,” Eloise said, passing a small, immaculately wrapped giftbox to the Countess. “He would not come inside,” she whispered apologetically to Emilie. “Just hurried off on his way.”

“Are you sure?” the Countess asked, frowning. “No one else can have known we were here.” She opened the box carefully. It contained an exquisite antique silver rattle, and tucked into the fold of the tissue paper a small card. She pulled it out.

“ _All best wishes for future happiness. HP._ ”

“Well, I’ll be good and goddamned,” Mrs Goldenberg said loudly, then blushed. “Sorry, Father.”

Paul shook his head bemusedly, but the shock on everyone’s faces was giving way to broad smiles and laughter, and as the party departed the chapel, chattering happily, Emilie felt it had been an altogether successful affair, albeit an odd one. The Count and Countess looked back from the door and waved, and Emilie waved back, adding her own silent prayer for long life and happiness to the mysterious HP’s, whoever he might be.


End file.
